Coffee heat rising

funny

This post may be a paid guest contribution.

Rasty-Nasty Weather!

by

That’s what my father called Ras Tanura, the company town where we spent ten years on the shore of the Persian Gulf: Rasty Nasty.

Today’s wet, soggy Arizona summer morning reminds one of Rasty Nasty. Hot and miserable: 93 degrees at 8:00 a.m.. No sign of rain that might leach some of the water out of the air. Just…yes: hot and miserable.

Seriously: today is one of the nastiest days I can remember since moving here. Maybe THE nastiest day.

Only 15% humidity, according to Wunderground. Heh! I sure wouldn’t put any money on that!

Ruby the Corgi and her human made it all the way around the park, but only by dint of the dog dragging the two-legged critter along. Drag draggity drag…about half the way!

Still… A few kids were tossing balls around. Several other dogs succeeded in hauling their humans along. But ohhhh my! Hot? Wet? Those words barely describe it.

We walked by the house where once lived the family whose son was sent to jail for allegedly “raping” a willing under-aged brat. That seems to be a “thing” in Arizona: accusing teenaged guys of raping some critter they met in a bar who turns out to have a driver’s license as fake as his, saying she was 18 or older.

A friend of mine went through that: her son picked up a chippie who had a fake ID. Naïvely went to her home to cavort in the sack. When her mother got home and caught them in flagrante, the woman called the cops and had him arrested for statutory rape. He went to prison, and his life was pretty much trashed.

He’s out of jail now. But as you can imagine, his prospects are somewhat…limited.

We do have a lot of crime in our society. But we seem to have about as much injustice…

At least my friend was able to hang onto her home. These people on our doggy-walk route lost the house, which is now an utter wreck. Presumably, if anyone ever buys the property to offer up as a residence, it will have to be bull-dozed and completely rebuilt.

It backs right onto the park, though. So — also presumably — a new or massively renovated house there will be worth a ton of money. Problem is, renovating it to that degree will jack up the sale price through the stratosphere, making it difficult or impossible to sell the place.

***

Lordie, it’s hot today! Not yet 9:00 a.m., but already too hot for viable life. Consequently: the Dawg and the Human are going back to bed!

Bye!

 

She’s B-a-a-a-c-k!

by

Zowie! I’m in!!

WordPress has been blocking me from signing into the Funny About Money website. Just did something — dunno what — that suddenly let me into the site.

Since I may not be able to get back, here’s an update, of sorts…

Things keep getting ridiculouser and ridiculouser. 

For myself: I’m slowly sinking into the Family Disease, which happens to be diabetes. Things go from bad to worse there: the Mayo Clinic has called the state and taken away my driving privileges, meaning I can’t even so much as drive to the grocery store.

Seriously: to buy food at the local market, I have to hike blocks through 100-degree heat! So much for “do no harm,”right?

Wouldn’t Hippocrates love it…

Meanwhile, my son has also fallen ill. Deeply worried about him…but what I can do about it, especially in my present condition, I can’t imagine.

And mean-meanwhile, it looks like there’s a good chance I may soon be dragged to an old-folk’s holding pen, very much against my will. Did you know they can force you into an old-folkerie? Even if you’re willing to hire someone to come to your home and care for you, apparently.

I need a lawyer. Mine dropped dead in his office.

No kidding. Apparently he was just standing there when he had a stroke and literally fell on the floor dead.

So now I have no one to help me through the biggest set of fiascos I’ve ever been through in my life. 

No one answers the phone at his office. Apparently where he had established himself was not a partnership but a sole proprietorship. It appears he was just renting space from the other lawyers in that office. So I can’t reach anyone to at least, for godsake, send me my file!

And I have NO IDEA how to deal with that.

He had written a will which, I hope, will protect my son and pass my property along to him. But…where IS that paperwork? 

My understanding is that wills and whatnot are filed with the County. But did he do that before he fell over dead? Don’t know, and don’t know how to find out.

When life turns into a fukkin’ nightmare, eh? 😮

As I scribble, it’s the wee hours of a Sunday morning. So I’ll have to wait until Monday to even try to get something done. Oh well: that gives a day in which to figure out how to try to get something done.

And mean-fukkin-while, GET THIS:

Some idiot called the state of Arizona and reported that I am being abused. 

No kidding!

The other day two social workers showed up at my front door, saying someone had called the state and told them I was being abused.

HUH?

By a pure miracle, Wonder-Cleaning Lady had been here that day, and so the house was spotlessly clean. I was neatly dressed and combed. So we sat in my clean and neat living room while we had a clean and neat conversation. They went on their way, apparently satisfied that I’m not being beaten and starved.

But of course, that means someone, somewhere is watching.

Yep: Big Brother is watching you…and me!

What kind trouble-maker would call up the state and sic a pair of social workers on me? That just escapes me. But it’s a big worry: will this also create problems for my son?

I simply have no idea. No experience with this kind of thing. And no imagination to picture whatever this trouble-maker might dream up next.

Meanwhile, one thing this unending fiasco has shown is that it was majorly a mistake to establish my medical care at the Mayo Clinic. Not because anything is wrong with the Mayo. But because the Mayo is almost an hour’s drive on the other side of the Valley!!!

They have a hospital that’s a little closer — about half that distance — but it also is a LONG way from my house. I have been enjoined from driving, which means it’s damn near impossible for me to get to a doctor — not without enormous inconvenience and hassle for my son!

{sigh} I guess what this shows is one basic principle: NEVER ESTABLISH YOUR MEDICAL CARE THROUGH A GIANT BUREAUCRACY. 

Seriously: I deeply regret having set health-care things up through the Mayo. Just getting an appointment is a hassle. When you try, you get sent to the far side of Scottsdale…quite a trick to get there, when their quack has nullified your driver’s license.

So it goes…from one fiasco to the next fiasco.

It’ll be interesting to see what happens next, eh?

What WAS the matter with us???

by

Ever have one of those reflective, memory-filled moments when you wonder…”Why didn’t I do this?” or “Why didn’t we do that?” Yeah…don’t we all, eh? This afternoon I’m haunted by one of…well, the most haunting such moments.

In the first chapter of our marriage, DXH and I lived in Phoenix’s downtown Encanto district, a quaint historic tract filled with beautiful old houses and, yes, lots of history.

Heh. It was filled with burglars and rapists, too: drawn by the affluent young people who thought a historic district was cool, and by their pretty wives (yes, in those days most young married women counted their occupation as “housewife”) who were were a sexy draw.

We lived next door to Mrs. Wilson: the widow of the city’s first city manager, a woman with some historic significance and a long, long-time resident of the central city.

Mrs. Wilson was scared.

But then, so were most of us. The Encanto district was richly populated with drug addicts, panhandlers, vagrants, burglars, and thieves. One never knew when any such worthy would come a-visiting. This fact alone was the main reason many of us lived with massive pet dogs: German shepherds, doberman pinschers, great Danes, and whatnot.

Well.

One morning Mrs. Wilson told me that she had gotten up in the night, walked out of her bedroom through the living room and into the kitchen…and on the way spotted some guy sleeping on her patio, right outside the living-room’s French doors.  

Holeeee sheee-ut!

What did she do?

Did she grab her pistol?

Nope.

Did she call the police?

Nope!

She retreated to her bedroom and cowered until sunrise.

No kidding.

What is the matter with people? All she had to do was lift the phone and dial our number. My husband would have gone right over and scared the midnight camper away. Or called the cops and sicced them on the guy.

Folks! This is why we have a  pistol. It’s why we have a German shepherd or a doberman. It’s why we have a FREAKIN’ PHONE!!!

Apparently it never entered her mind to pick up the phone in her hallway and call the police. Or us. Too terrorized, no doubt, to think.

No one would expect an 80-year-old woman to have a .45 at the ready. Okay, that makes sense. But she sure as Hell can have a telephone at the ready.

So can any of the rest of us.  

Whenever you’re home, ALWAYS HAVE A PHONE WITHIN EASY REACH. And know how to call emergency services. Most municipalities use 911; if yours doesn’t, you can dial the Operator and tell her what’s up, and where. She’ll call the cops for you.

This is easier now, with cell phones that don’t have to be plugged in. But it might be wise to have a land-line at hand, too…just in case.

The other thing we all need to do is think through what we’re going to do in this set of circumstances or that set of circumstances. 

What are you gonna do if you wake up and find someone creeping around your house? What are you gonna do if the house catches fire? What are you gonna do if you hear someone start up your car and drive it out of your carport?

And be prepared to make these maneuvers work. If you figure you’re going to grab a pistol, be sure that pistol is well lubricated, working, and loaded; and that you know how to use it. And that it’s kept out of the kiddies’ reach…  If you’re going to flee, have several escape routes in mind, and know how to get to them. If you imagine your dog is going to protect you, have your dog trained for the purpose.

Be set to go into action. Always. 

Shades of Araby…

by

It’s not really that the exterior temperature is so hot. It’s the humidity. Under high overcast come 11:44 a.m., it’s 105 degrees in the shade of the back porch.

Yes: that IS one hundred and five degrees. 

{gasp!} Wunderground claims it’s 106 degrees (BFD!) with a 15% chance of rain in the next six hours. Peering out the back door, we see a high, thin layer of overcast, and a back-porch thermometer reading of 105 degrees. Indoors, the AC cools it down to 81 degrees. Which is some 20 degrees better…I guess…but not a helluva lot more comfortable, because it does little to suck the humidity out of the indoor air.

This feels like it did we lived in Arabia: where the weather was chronically hot and soggy. I was a little kid at the time, and so didn’t know any better. But my parents…well, they weren’t averse to complaining about it!  😀

My mother grew up in upstate New York — was sent to California when her paternal grandmother (who was raising her) died of diabetes. No: there was no such thing as insulin in those days…if there had been, you can be sure her folks couldn’t afford it.

My mother never got the Family Disease. I’m told I have “pre-diabetes,” whatever that is. And another family member supposedly has a full-on case of it. Is it not odd that such a dangerous, potentially fatal disease would be heritable? Surely, that would seem to keep the population boom down..

A dear friend also has this fine ailment. She seems to be coping with it well…but that being her business, one never knows.

WhatEVER. Just now I’m wishing I was back in the San Francisco Bay Area, whence my mother’s family emanated. And where, IMHO, I believe I belong. A hundred and five in the shade does not feel livable to me! 😀

 

 

Hotter Than the Hubs…Crabbier Than a Dungeness Crab

by

Man! It is passing cozy out there! Four in the afternoon and 110 in the shade of the back porch…augh!!!

A modest bank of clouds lurks to the north…this would add humidity to the mix. How much, I wonder?

Humidity: 16%
Chance of rain: 24%

Yech!  And we live here…why?

Totally not in the mood to fix dinner, but…well… Figure I’d better get out to that ‘cue, because — don’tcha just know it? — if I wait until a decent hour, those towering white cloud things in the sky to the north of us will invite themselves to home and dump all over us.

But…do I care? 
Nya nya nya! No, I don’t!

I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Ain’t about to go anywhere. Rain makes me no nevver-mind. Same for the heat.

Seriously: my son’s machinations of a few weeks ago resulted in his stashing the car elsewhere. 

My reaction to that was hah! BFD! I’ll just rent a car!!!! 

*****

But it was, shall we say, an enfeebled reaction. Because…I don’t need to rent a car. By dayum, I don’t need a car at all. 

😮

A guy who drives for Uber lives right across the street. Several others live here in the’ Hood. So if I want to go anywhere that’s outside of walking distance, all I have to do is call one of those folks.

But DO I wanna go anywhere outside of walking distance? Truth to tell: not often. We have three  major supermarkets within steps of the Funny Farm. A veterinarian. A storefront “emergency”clinic.

Hmmmm…. WHY spend a lot of money on a car, on insurance, on licensing, on whatnot…when you really don’t NEED one? When you can rent a car if you just must have one right this minute?

What an insight!

Seriously: it never entered my mind, before this, that I could get by here without a car. That a car is a superfluous, pointless expense… But y’know what?

At least where I’m living, it’s true: a car is a superfluous, pointless expense. 

So here’s my plan, to the extent that a plan is applicable:

* Trot on down to the DMV and be sure, in person, that my present driver’s license will cover me in a rental or borrowed vehicle.

* Trot on up (about three or four blocks) to the rental place and ask how much it would cost to rent a chariot, and for how long.

* Talk to my financial guy about the advisability of selling the Dog Chariot, and ask how to go about that most efficiently and safely.

* Move forward with that, as advised.

* Make friends with staff at the car rental place. Be sure my insurance will cover a rented vehicle.

* Discuss the plan with my neighbor, the Uber driver. Find out how to get an Uber (or other rental) on short notice, if needed, and what else I need to know about renting cars.

* Figure out what to do with the garage. One idea is to turn it into a studio for wanna-be artist friends. Get an art teacher to meet with a group, and use the space for art tables and supplies.

* And finally, if dispensing with the car altogether actually works, sell the damn thing — or give it to my son, if he wants it.

Probably this scheme is not going to save vast amounts of money. My car is paid for, and it doesn’t cost much to maintain and insure. But…who knows? Maybe the idea will save something. And it’s…well, it’s sooo very 21st-century, eh? 😀

If I need to get from Point A to Point B: ride a bus or the railway, or mooch a ride from my son.

If I need a car to take me to an appointment — distance here to distance there, on time — hire an Uber.

If the dog needs to be schlepped to a vet: impose on my son or a neighbor to help haul her there.

**********

LOL!

And probably this scheme is not going to prod my memory to post a post when I finish writing the post!  😀  😀  😀

/////

So here ’tis, a day late and many a dollar short.  Summarizing its message (such as it is…):

My son’s purloining my car (out of concern my safety) has opened the door to a number of big-city possibilities. Among them: the fact that my neighborhood is over-run with Uber drivers. One of these worthies lives right across the street! 

That’s in addition to the very busy train and bus traffic running up and down Main Drag West.

When my mother and I lived in San Francisco — lo! these many years ago — we did own a nice car. We thought of it as my father’s, though of course she drove it more than he did…because he went to sea. He was a Merchant Marine officer, and traveled far more on the ocean than he ever did on land.

He loved his spiffy Chrysler, though. And so my mother inclined to avoid driving it, in order to keep it safe from the City’s rambunctious traffic. She’d take it out and drive to a grocery store maybe once a month, but otherwise we walked or took the public transportation.

Welp…y’know what? A what that hadn’t dawned on me until the present altercation with Mijito? I don’t need a car here any more than she did when we were in San Francisco! 

Whaaa???????

It’s true! Living in my neighborhood, I really don’t need a car. Especially with an Uber driver living across the street and willing to schlep me to destinations like the dentist’s office or the Mayo Clinic.

No kidding. Everything else is within easy strolling distance. Right off the top of my head, for example, I can list a mob of routine destinations…ones that I can walk to without having to pay a dime.

  • 3 large supermarkets
  • A Trader Joe’s
  • A Walgreen’s
  • A delightful Mexican supermarket
  • A large bookstore
  • A computer store with a repair service
  •  My son’s house (a bit out of the way, but not an unreasonable walk)
  • A stop for a bus that goes straight down to the church
  • The same bus proceeds on down the road to the beloved AJ’s Overpriced Gourmet Grocery Store
  • A storefront doctor’s office
  • And if I’m not mistaken, there’s a veterinary office within walking distance.

See what I mean? In the time I’ve spent loafing in my car (a matter of years, it’s true…), Phoenix has morphed from a large small town into a real city.

Soooo…. Why not make use of the amenities of a real city?

F’rgodsake, At Least Get the Story Straight!

by

The most ludicrous stuff is going on here. 

It’s my fault, because behaviorally I do not hew to the standard  American middle-class way of daily living. I grew up overseas, in a remote oil colony surrounded by a culture best described as “alien” to the American way of doing things. It was like living on another planet, when that planet was inhabited by people who had no grasp of our way of life. And we, conversely, had little grasp of theirs.

The way we Americans did things, in private behind closed doors, was very different from the way the locals did things. They would (and did) regard our ways as downright immoral. But because we lived in a fenced, isolated American community, most of the time we could go about our lives as we pleased, local mores and laws notwithstanding.

Saudis, they were — the locals. In terms of what they viewed as right & wrong, what they regarded as “clean living”: about the closest we would have here are Mormons. 

As  you know if you live in the American Southwest, Mormonism — like Islam — forbids the use of alcohol.

But your average American Jane or Joe — unlike a Moslem, unlike a Mormon — is not really much into teetotaling. Thus, where we lived in Arabia, the isolated camps full of American company employees were populated with folks who were used to a cocktail at dinner and to getting snockered at a party.

Where did those cocktails come from? Generally from a still hidden in or near the American resident’s home. My father brewed his own alcohol for years, and after the Arab workers went home, many a fine party was held in camp, fueled by DIY booze.

Thus I grew up thinking that a cocktail at dinnertime or at party time was a normal part of life. No, we were not getting blitzed every evening after the hired help went back to their own settlements. We  were having a cocktail before dinner, or a couple of swiggles during a party.

Thus it has been all of my adult life. From the time I was 18 years old. All the time I was going through the university, I dated a guy who did the same. After I graduated, we split up but I continued our usual habit with beer or low-rent wine.

The horror, eh?

Well…yeah. Turns out this is not normal behavior for a large slab of Americans. 

Among them is my cleaning lady. She thinks I’m a lush because I have a glass of wine with my mid-day meal — which is my equivalent of dinner: meat, potatoes, veggie, salad. This horror, she has reported to my son, and now he thinks I sit around all afternoon swilling booze.

Yeah, you’re right: if I’d had any sense, I would have refrained from drinking wine or beer in front of her. And so I should have.

My son, having ingested her exaggerated reports, has now passed this “intelligence” along to my doctors!

No kidding! He has told them I sit around every afternoon getting snockered!

And that has created a fine fistful of trouble for me.

In the first place, short of a camera and a replayable video, I have no way of proving to these docs — or to my son — that no, I do not sit around all afternoon getting blitzed.

In the second place, this blossoming squabble means I have two choices by way of keeping the peace:

* Either get rid of ALL the alcohol in the house — all alcohol of any kind, from a bottle of gin to a tiny bottle of vanilla flavoring…

* Or sell the house, move away, and get on with my life unmolested.

Neither of these these options appeals to me. I do not want to change my lifestyle because someone else’s religion or superstition tells me what I do is naughty-naughty.

And I most certainly do not want to move away from my home, my son and my friends.

Absurd, isn’t it?